Decrescendo

The trees play a symphony of color,

With the maples and the sweet gums

Filling in the brass section,

The willows, the graceful, high-pitched strings,

And the oaks, leather-headed drums.

It is September, that unsubtle month,

That must be heard beating out summer,

Heralding fall,

Warning of winter to come.

"These crisp mornings put sweetness in the apples,"

Mama used to say.

And the orchestra plays on--

Sometimes in the raucous sunlight that seems

Brighter because it is rarer than in July,

Sometimes under billowing clouds,

Sometimes softly muffled in the early morning mists.

The song is as sweet as a golden delicious,

But with overtones of melancholy,

Foreshadowing a change of key.

(Copyright 1998 by Sharon Kirk Clifton)

Write on!

Because of Christ,

Sharon

Celebrating Dr. Calvin Miller's Life

Yesterday, the Lord's Day, 19 August 2012, Dr. Calvin Miller passed from this life into the Presence of our Lord Jesus Christ. We are blessed to have his great body of work remaining to continue his legacy. 

I am most familiar with his poetic works, The Singer trilogy. When I was classroom teaching, I often read it aloud to my high school English students and saw it touch their lives. 

Dr. Miller was to be the keynote speaker at the 2012 Indianapolis Christian Writers' Conference, held the first weekend of November at the world headquarters of the Wesleyan Church. I was looking forward to hearing him speak and hopefully meeting him. Alas, I'll have to wait for Heaven. 

Do you have memories of Dr. Miller? Which of his works especially affected your life? Please leave a comment.

Write on!

Because of Christ,

Sharon

A Gathering of Inky Sisters

Four friends recently met at my little nest to talk about our shared passion: writing. It had been far too long since we had come together--well over a year.

We met through the now-dissolved Southern Indiana Writers' Salon, a group I co-founded in 2001. Since SIWS's demise early in 2010, some former members--I among them--have felt a bit like a motherless child, wanting to start another group, but hesitant to take the risks of such an undertaking. You see, SIWS did not end well, but that's a subject for different blog entry.

Clustered around my dining room table, we shared current projects, nibbled on fresh veggies and still-warm oatmeal cookies, and exercised our problem-solving skills to address rough spots in our writing. Beyond that, we encouraged and inspired one another. (Hey, oft-pubbed Ramona K. Cecil came up with the name for the novella I'm working on--and that was within five minutes of her arrival!)

Most important, we hold one another in prayer. We seek God's guidance in our writing, our meeting, and our families.

We are a diverse band. Ramona writes historical romance fiction and poetry. Kathi Linz writes whatever suits her fancy. She is an information specialist at our local library, so her interests are like a sunburst, pointing off in many directions. Most of her writing, both fiction and non-fiction, is for children. Natalie Bray, who participates in Renaissance festivals, writes in the genre of speculative fiction, the sub-genre of fantasy. As she unfolds the many layers of her current work, the room becomes crowded with strange, unimaginable creatures, dragons, monsters, courageous heroes and silver-haired heroines. I write middle-grade novels and some poetry. I'm also working on a historical novella and some children's magazine pieces.

So what is the future of this new aggregate of wordsmiths? That vision is still under construction. But this we know. We will maintain our Christian identity. Further, we will remain a small, informal gathering of inky friends, running no notices in the newspaper inviting others to join us. Does that mean we would not accept more writers to our circle? Certainly not. But we won't advertise toward that end.

Writing often is an isolated endeavor. Sure, we leave our writer's caves to conduct research and to be active members of our families, churches and communities, but the actual nitty-gritty work of our craft usually is done apart from the gaping crowd. Nonetheless, we need our fellow scribes. I highly recommend participating in writers' organizations, online communities, and critique groups, but don't neglect the face-to-face meetings, also. We say it often because it's true: Iron sharpens iron.

Your Turn:  Do you belong to a local writers' group? What have you gained from participation? What advice or warnings would you give to others considering starting such a group? Please respond by leaving a "Comment."

At the Cross

I huddle at the foot of the Cross,
My arms stretch to encompass it around,
My head bowed,
My eyes pinched so tightly they hurt.
Silent sobs wrack my being.

The men are gone.
The Brotherhood, save one, has forsaken the Master.
Other women stand,
Bow,
Lie prostrate nearby,
Each alone,
Forsaken,
Desperate,
Desolate.
I hear their weeping off in the distance,
At the perimeter of my own sorrow.

Roman soldiers stand silent,
Trying to understand,
Yet bound merely to a duty.
Scribes, Pharisees, Sadducees
Cluster together and mutter into their self-righteous beards,
Rehearsing their excuses.
Their mumbling blends, segues into the rumbling of a gathering storm.

Messiah, on the Cross, lifts His head to Heaven.
With one last lingering remnant of strength,
He pushes against the spike that holds His feet,
Pulls up on the nails that pierce His wrists,
Draws in a gurgling breath,
Licks His lips to moisten them, to make speech possible,
And cries out to the Father Whose Face is turned away.

"It is finished!"

A pronouncement that will echo throughout Eternity.

I look up as His weary, abused head
Sinks
To His bosom,
Where so many children had rested their heads
And received His blessing.

A drop of His vermillion Blood
Rolls down one of the thorns
That comprises a crude crown.
In one interminable moment,
I watch it
Fall;
I tip my face downward in shame,
Knowing my own unworthiness,
Yet yearning for His anointing.
That Sacred Drop
Splashes on my head and covers me over.

The Earth begins to tremble.

Copyright 2007 by Sharon Kirk Clifton

Ramona K. Cecil, Writing Romance God's Way

Some of the best writing advice I've received came from my friend and multi-published author Ramona K. Cecil. We live in neighboring towns, and we both were active in the same writers' group. She is the one who prompted me to join American Christian Fiction Writers. So it was with great pleasure that I sat down with her over lunch at the local Panera restaurant for an interview. She's a very busy lady, so I greatly appreciated her taking the time to meet with me.

"And God is able to make all grace abound to you, so that in all things at all times, having all that you need, you will abound in every good work." ~2 Corinthians 9:8

ME:  Ramona, I know you began your writing career by writing poetry. You include a poet's vivid imagery in your prose writing, as well. What is there about poetry that appeals to you?

RAMONA:  I love the beautiful "word pictures" poetry paints. I write rhyming poetry in the tradition of Helen Steiner Rice. I enjoy the challenge of constructing the poem, i.e., saying what I want to say in the way I want to say it while keeping the meter and making it rhyme without the rhyme sounding forced or contrived.

ME:  What steps have you taken to develop your craft?

RAMONA:  The poetry has always come very natural to me, so I've never really studied how to write it. I've only developed it by repetition--writing many, many poems over my lifetime. The prose, however, is different. Online writing workshops, critique groups, and reading the works of authors I admire are some of the ways I continue to develop my novel writing skills.

ME:  Where do your ideas for your poetry come from?

RAMONA:  The short answer is "Everywhere." As a child, I began writing poems about the beauty of nature, God's creation, and how that beauty affected me. As I matured, the subject of my poems became more about my Christian walk, my dependence on the Lord and thanking Him for His many blessings.

ME:  You know I love reading your historical romances, and I admire the depth of research you do to be accurate and true to the period about which you're writing. From where do those ideas spring?

RAMONA:  I'm most often inspired by real-life events in history, especially Indiana history. I like to take a nugget of some real-life occurance and build a fictional story around it. My first novel was inspired by a visit to Connor Prairie [a living history village near Noblesville, Indiana]. My latest, A Bride's Sweet Surprise in Sauers, Indiana, was inspired by stories my uncle learned while working on a family history.

ME:  Which comes first--the title or the idea?

RAMONA:  The idea comes first, but, oddly, I can't seem to begin a story until I have a title. The title may change over time, but I have to have one to begin writing.

ME:  Are you a plotter or a pantser?

RAMONA:   Now, I'm a plotter. I started out a pantser, but I soon learned I needed more structure in order to write quicker and with fewer "plot holes."

ME:  How much flexibility do you allow yourself? I.e., how much straying from the plot do you allow? Can the story change radically?

RAMONA:  I do allow myself a liberal amount of flexibility. Sometimes I'm working on a chapter and decide that something I'd planned in my chapter synopsis won't work as well as I'd thought, or might even cause a problem later in the story. I just have to make sure any changes are reflected in later chapters. For instance, I can't have someone moving away and then reappearing in a later chapter without explanation.

ME:  Have you ever suffered writer's block? How do you overcome it?

RAMONA:  Yes. I imagine most, if not all, writers experience it some time or another. First, I pray for God's guidance. Brainstorming with fellow writers is another way to give your imagination a jump start.

ME:  How do you push through when life intrudes on your writing time?

RAMONA:  That's a difficult one. Since my husband works evenings, that's when I do my writing. I try to keep that time as free as possible from intrusions.

ME:  What has been the biggest challenge to your writing?

RAMONA:  Believing I can actually do this. I have to remind myself that alone I can't do it, but with God's help there is nothing I can't do. Beside my computer, I keep the verse from Ephesians 3:20:

Glory be to God, Why by His mighty power at work within us is able to do far more than we would ever dare ask or even dream of."

ME:  You have such a sweet mentor's heart, always willing to help other writers by offering sage advice and encouragement. Where does that come from?

RAMONA:  When I embarked on my journey toward becoming an author, I encountered many wonderful writers who encouraged me and helped me along the way. I love the chance to pay that forward and help other aspiring authors. Besides the thrill I get out of helping another writer along, I'm sure God expects nothing less from me.

ME:  In what ways do you partner with the Lord in your writing?

RAMONA:  I consider my writing a ministry. Through my characters, I try to show God's unconditional love and salvation and that He can overcome any problem or obstacle in a person's life, if we give Him control and yield our will to His.

ME:  Has He ever sent up a red warning flag that would seem to suggest, "No, don't go there," or "You're looking at that wrong."

RAMONA:  I honestly believe that is when I question some aspect of a scene. I call these episodes "God whispers." Sometimes something I've written or plan to write just doesn't "feel" right. Then I pray and ask for God's guidance. It may take a day or two, but an idea of how I might better handle the scene eventually comes.


ME:  What is the greatest compliment you've received regarding your writing?

RAMONA:  That my writing has touched someone in a very personal way. Whenever I hear that from readers of both my poetry and my novels, I'm simply blown away and extremely humbled.


ME:  How does your husband Jim help you in your writer's journey? Does he support you?

RAMONA:  Yes, he is very supportive. He puts up with me leaving him for days to attend conferences and has lugged boxes of books, assisting me at book signings. He has sometimes even helped me brainstorm an aspect of a story. Also, I couldn't do this and support myself financially. Jim refers to himself as my corporate sponsor.

ME:  Have you ever received negative feedback from a critique partner, an agent, or an editor? How did you deal with that?

RAMONA:  Absolutely. I have learned that to be a successful writer, one must have a teachable heart. I can usually sense if a criticism is genuinely meant to help me improve my writing or is simply mean-spirited. To be honest, I've experienced both. However brutal, the ones meant to help I take to heart and use as tools to make my writing better. The others, I simply ignore.

ME:  How did you land an agent?

RAMONA:  Basically through a conference. I got to know Tamela Hancock Murry [Steve Laube Agency] several years ago when we were stuck together at the Denver airport waiting for our flights home after a writers' conference. At that time, I was writing the short romances that didn't require an agent. Later when I began writing the longer stories, a friend and client of Tamela encouraged me to send her a proposal. I did and she accepted me as a client.

ME:  What qualities were you seeking in an agent?

RAMONA:  Someone accessible and with my best interests at heart.

Me:  What's your favorite among your books?

RAMONA:  That's like asking me which of my children I like better. I guess, if pushed, I'd say my first book, Larkspur. Though perhaps not as technically well-written as some of my later works, it is truly the story of my heart.

ME:  Tell us about your latest book.

RAMONA:  My latest book is A Bride's Sweet Surprise in Sauers, Indiana [picture above]. The story, set in the real-life German farming community of Sauers in my home county of Jackson, was inspired by actual incidents from my family history. Regina Seitz's sisters were allowed to marry for love, but Regina has been told by her father she must marry a man she has never met, just so Papa can have a German son-in-law to inherit the family homestead. Diedrich Rothhaus is as reluctant as she is, until her striking beauty and deep faith stir emotions he hadn't expected. Against both their wills, love claims their hearts. Then a cruel family secret is revealed, and Diedrich must fight to save the most precious thing in hi life, Regina's love.

ME:  Okay, Ramona. You've definitely piqued my interest in this one. Now what can we look forward to in the future?

RAMONA:  I've just finished another short historical romance, Heart's Heritage, scheduled for release later this year by Barbour Publishing. The story is set in Jackson County, Indiana, against the backdrop of the War of 1812 and the rising threats of the great Shawnee war chief, Tecumseh.

ME:  Ah! We'll be watching for that one, too. I find Tecumseh quite heroic. Okay, you're a poet and a historical romance writer. Is there another genre you'd like to explore? If so, what? And why?

RAMONA:  I've written some contemporary novellas and have even plotted a contemporary romantic suspense. I also have an idea for a contemporary women's fiction novel.

ME:  Let's play Pretend. You're having a tea party. You can invite seven writers--past or present. Who will you invite and why?

RAMONA:  Of course I'd invite you, Sharon. My other six choices would be close friends and wonderful authors of Christian fiction: Louise Gouge, Laurie Alice Eakes, MaryLu Tyndall, Kim Vogel Sawyer, Patty Hall, and Debbie Lynne Costello.

ME: Thank you for including me with this esteemed group. These all are writers I'd love to meet.

What is a typical day like in the life of author Ramona K. Cecil?

RAMONA:  Since we live a late shift due to my hubby's job, I get up about 11 a.m.. I check e-mails, then have breakfast with hubby and watch some news on TV. I'm then often jumping in the car to run errands. Fix lunch around 3 p.m., then get hubby off to work at 4:35. Then I check e-mails again and begin my "writing time." I work until 8 p.m., when I take a supper break. I go back to work from 9 p.m. to 1:30 a.m. when hubby comes home.

ME:  What is the best writing advice you've been given?

RAMONA:   Keep writing. Never give up. Keep your eyes on Christ. Never forget

ME:  Who were your mentors?

RAMONA:  Two early critique partners, Pat Loomis and Stacy Wilder, Kim Vogel Sawyer, Louise Gouge, Laurie Alice Eakes, and MaryLu Tyndall, who continue to encourage me and help make me a better writer.

ME:  What advice do you offer to novice writers?

RAMONA:  Have a teachable heart and never give up. Keep your eyes on Christ. Remember God is in control, and His timing is perfect. Never forget Who [sic] you are working for and that He will help you do the work He has given you to do. And encourage one another.

ME:  That sounds very much like Colossians 3:23-24. Kathy, dear friend, what a blessing it has been to chat with you. Thank you. And may our Lord continue to bless you, Jim, and your work.

Write on!
Because of Christ

Gentle Readers, remember to leave a comment by noon, March 14. I'll randomly select from among those who comment and announce the winner of Ramona's latest book on this blog by 10 a.m. March 15.

At the Cross

I huddle at the foot of the Cross,

My arms stretched to encompass it around,

My head bowed,

My eyes pinched so tightly they hurt.

Silent sobs wrack my being.

The men are gone.

The Brotherhood, save one, has forsaken the Master.

Other women stand,

Bow,

Lie prostrate nearby,

Each alone,

Forsaken,

Desperate,

Desolate.

I hear their weeping off in the distance,

At the perimeter of my own sorrow.

Roman soldiers stand silent,

Trying to understand,

Yet bound merely to a duty.

Scribes, Pharisees, Sadduccees

Cluster together and mutter into their self-righteous beards,

Rehearsing their excuses.

Their mumbling blends, segues into the rumbling of a gathering storm.

Messiah, on the Cross, lifts His head to Heaven.

With one last lingering remnant of strength,

He pushes against the spike that holds His feet,

Pulls up on the nails that pierce His wrists,

Draws in a gurgling breath,

Licks His lips to moisten them, to make speech possible,

And cries out to the Father Whose Face is turned away.

"It is finished!"

A pronouncement that will echo throughout Eternity.

I look up as His weary, abused head

Sinks

To His bosom,

Where so many children had rested their heads

And received His blessing.

A drop of His vermilion Blood

Rolls down one of the thorns

That comprises a crude crown.

In one interminable moment,

I watch it

Fall;

I tip my face downward in shame,

Knowing my own unworthiness,

Yet yearning for His anointing.

That Sacred Drop

Splashes on my head and covers me over.

The Earth begins to tremble.

~Copyright 2007 by Sharon Kirk Clifton

Decrescendo

The trees play a symphony of color,
With the maples and the sweetgums
Filling the brass section,
The willows, the graceful, high-pitched strings,
The oaks, leather-headed drums.
It is September, that unsubtle month
That must be heard beating out the summer,
Heralding the fall,
Warning of winter to come.
"These crisp mornings put the sweetness
In the apples," Mama used to say.
And the symphony plays on,
Sometimes in the raucous sunlight that seems
Brighter because it is rarer than in July,
Sometimes under billowing clouds,
Sometimes softly muted in the early morning mists.
The song is as sweet as a golden delicious,
But with overtones of melancholy,
Foreshadowing a key change.

Copyright 1996 by Sharon Kirk Clifton

Some Poetry for a Summer Afternoon

 

August

Cicadas sing their late summer song

through thick air.

It's a time when skin sticks to plastic seats

and flies hover around eyes

and dart near noses.

Dogs bark intermittently,

pausing to scratch incessant itches,

marigolds yell in tones of orange,

and dahlias dally along garden borders.

Barefoot country boys

squeeze creek-bottom sand between brown toes.

And the Muses inspire poets to write sentimental verse about August.

Copyright 1998 by Sharon Kirk Clifton

Blessed Is the Father Who Fishes

Blessed is the father who fishes,

for he can teach his children patience,

that incredible waiting and watching

for bobbers to nod in affirmation of a hit,

to dive in confirmation of a bite.

Then, when life requires patience,

this father's child will know

to chew on a stalk of sourgrass and wait

until the time is right.

Blessed is the father who fishes,

for he can teach his children honesty,

even when bait swallows bait

and the stringer weighs more than the catch.

Then, when life offers temptations

to turn fingerlings into lunkers,

this father's child will know

that honor is worth more than transient praise.

Blessed is the father who fishes,

for he can teach his children to see,

not in the superficial sense,

but in a way that not only sees

but understands hidden lessons

of trout swimming against the current,

of geese winging toward warmer climes

before winter's chill sets in.

Then when this father's child faces storms of his own,

he'll recall lessons of wings against the wind

and will stay strong.

Blessed is the man who fishes,

for he can teach his children to listen

to quiet things,

like the plop! of a bullfrog into a lake of glass

or the sound of a smooth stone skipping over ripples,

the whir of a dragonfly's wings,

the buzzing of a cicada,

and his children will be quiet 

when the still, small voice of God speaks.

Blessed is the man who fishes--

and blessed are his children

Copyright 1987 by Sharon Kirk Clifton

[This poem won first place in the National Federation of State Poetry Society's Winner's Circle Award]

I must tell you the story of "Blessed Is the Father Who Fishes."

In 1987, I was concluding my first year of teaching. One of my colleagues in the English department had asked to read another of my poems, "Blessed Is the Woman Who Knows of Apples," for a Mothers' Day program at her church. The congregation loved it and asked her to read one dedicated to fathers for their special day the next month. She came up to me in the cafeteria, where I was on lunch duty.

"Do you have a poem for Fathers' Day?"

"Well . . . uh . . . I don't have one, yet, but give me time to work on it." She smiled and nodded as she walked away. As I walked around the cafeteria, trying to catch someone launching ripe olives at a classmate, I thought of Bob a dear, Godly man from my church.

Bob loved to do five things: tease my teen daughters, play harmonica (he had a whole suitcase full of them, and he won just about every competition he entered), roost and crow with his buddies over coffee at Richards' Restaurant every morning, fish daily (even when he had to use an auger to drill through thick ice), and eat the fish he caught. And everything he did was "as unto the Lord." 

Bob was the inspiration for this poem. By the time my duty sentence for that day was finished, so was the poem. I typed it up and handed it to the teacher to read on Fathers' Day. 

A few years later, I entered it in the national competition cited above. Shortly before Bob went off to go fishing with the Lord in Heaven, I visited him and his wife. Framed and hanging on the wall, right above where he would sit on the floor to clean his catch of the day, was the poem.

At the Cross

A poem for Good Friday

I huddle at the foot of the Cross,

My arms stretched to encompass it around,

My head bowed,

My eyes pinched so tightly they hurt.

Silent sobs wrack my being.

The men are gone.

The Brotherhood, save one, has forsaken the Master.

Other women stand,

Bow,

Lie prostrate nearby,

Each alone,

Forsaken,

Desperate,

Desolate.

I hear their weeping off in the distance,

At the perimeter of my own sorrow.

Roman soldiers stand silent,

Trying to understand,

Yet bound merely to a duty.

Scribes, Pharisees, Sadduccees

Cluster together and mutter into their self-righteous beards,

Rehearsing their excuses.

Their mumbling blends, segues into the rumbling of a gathering storm.

Messiah, on the Cross, lifts His head to Heaven.

With one last lingering remnant of strength,

He pushes against the spike that holds His feet,

Pulls up on the nails that pierce His wrists,

Draws in a gurgling breath,

Licks His lips to moisten them, to make speech possible,

And cries out to the Father Whose Face is turned away.

"It is finished!"

A pronouncement that will echo throughout Eternity.

I look up as His weary, abused head

Sinks

To His bosom,

Where so many children had rested their heads

And received His blessing.

A drop of His vermilion Blood

Rolls down one of the thorns

That comprises a crude crown.

In one interminable moment,

I watch it

Fall;

I tip my face downward in shame,

Knowing my own unworthiness,

Yet yearning for His anointing.

That Sacred Drop

Splashes on my head and covers me over.

The Earth begins to tremble.

~Copyright 2007 by Sharon Kirk Clifton

Snowy, Snowy Day

If indeed a picture is worth a thousand words, why should I write anything about this road not taken in winter?

But, on the other hand, being a writer, I can hardly resist the opportunity to pen a bit of haiku.

Wending, wandering

snow-covered lane through the woods

to--I wonder where.

Now it's your turn, gentle reader. With the above photo (by R. Ford) as inspiration, write a haiku in the "Comments" section. Pen as many poems as you wish, but please use a new comment for each.

Just to remind you, haiku is a Japanese form consisting of three lines with a syllable count of 5-7-5. The subject usually is some aspect of nature captured in fleeting moment. In this case, I've provided the photo.

Happy Poetry Month!

Storytrance

Disbelief
dangles above our heads
while he stands
like a spectre
shrouded in smoke and
backlighted by the campfire.
Haints hover just outside
the ring of light
waiting to creep closer as the
fire wanes.
Dragonbreath
blows away the chill bumps
temporarily
but they return
when giants clamber through the woods
hehind us.
Faerie folk wish we'd leave
so they could claim our circle
and dance their rhyme
but we can't.
We're rooted to log seats
eyes glazed
jaws slack
hearts first slow
then race
all beating as one with the
cadence of the storyteller's voice as
tricksters and troubadours
strangers and waifs
strut among the fire's flame
and ride the backs of
donkeys and dragons.
Then he stops
sits
becomes human again
but another rises
and we're ready.
Once upon a time
somewhere
beyond the Silver Sea
beyond the Azure Forest
beyond the Glass Mountain
beyond the Straw Town
there was
and there was not...

Copyright 2001 by Sharon Kirk Clifton

I Break for Poetry

Blossoms, like snow, drift
and blow on the roof next door--
spring's fragrant blizzard.